


No Glass for the Groom

by chonideno



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alec's POV, Angst, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Sorry Author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chonideno/pseuds/chonideno
Summary: Alec still marries Lydia even though Magnus is in the chapel. It's widely regarded as a bad move.





	1. Crowns for Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theprophetlemonade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprophetlemonade/gifts).



> This is my first Malec fic so my characterization may be hesitant in some aspects. It took me forever to write this so the style may be inconsistent at time? I don't know, I'm blind to my own writing at this point. What wouldn’t I do for some crying Malecs. Also Alec is _so_ emo.
> 
> Quick disclaimers: this fic follows the canon of the show, not the books (not to the letter, I changed some details/lines for the sake of convenience). Also, it’s more of a writing exercise than anything. Under no circumstances have I ever wished for this to happen in canon. They’re happy and in love and I wish them no harm at all. I just wanted to improve my angst writing and this scenario was just perfect for it.
> 
> Dedicated to Lucy because I wouldn't be in this hell hole without her.

“I’m getting married.”

Alec has said these exact words plenty of times already, in front of other people for instance, but mainly in front of the mirror. To see what it feels like. He’s taken the time to familiarize with the feeling this simple sentence brought, like sealing something away. Quickly, he found a way to silence the music in the words. They became flat, lifeless, rehearsed, empty. “I’m getting married,” he’d repeat, and all would be right in the world.

Saying them in front of Magnus should have felt the same way. It didn’t.

Of course Magnus has to joke about it.  Of course he plays around like the cat he is and teases Alec about _them_ , about _tradition_.

“I proposed to Lydia,” Alec hears himself say then. He watches as Magnus can’t seem to find a way to react. For once, he seems taken aback. Should it be this surprising to him?

“It makes sense,” Alec starts justifying without thinking about it. “It’s a solid partnership, for both of us.”

“Solid partnership…” Magnus snides. “That’s hot!”

Even under the singing tones of his voice when he grudgingly praises the merits of marriage, Magnus sounds hurt. Alec doesn’t take the time to marvel at how quickly Magnus pulls himself back together; without a doubt, he has experienced worse in his long life than seeing a _fleeting crush_ get married without him. Instead, he looks for something else to say, something better, something that would make Magnus stay and talk this out. Maybe he has a magical solution, a miraculous way out. But pride keeps his voice deep down his throat and after Magnus says his goodbyes, Alec is left gaping like a trout.

 

* * *

 

Magnus has always flirted openly and Alec has always done his best to ignore it. In a way, it pisses him off. He prefers not to think of the times it didn’t. Magnus is obviously trying to pierce through Alec’s defenses with innuendos as his best weapons (at least when he tries to be subtle about it) but Alec never felt the need to flirt back.

Once, however, he indulged in the thought of it. Well, maybe not _indulged_ , it’s not like it was a treat or anything, but he thought about it. Just to see what it would feel like to just give in to childish tastes, to try something crazier than sit in the mold given to him years ago. He had thought of similar things before, when he was younger; of Jace often, of other boys sometimes. Quickly, Alec had learned how to tell unwelcome delusions from grounded realities, pinches to the heart from rational feelings, lies he occasionally entertained at night from reassuring limits that guaranteed his safety.

A few times per year, the white tower he had built for himself faded, mental marble collapsing all over his ego. He never did anything but turn a blind eye to it. If he ignored it, it couldn’t be _that_ bad. Eventually, he would refuse his sister’s help and rebuild it quickly, his silent promises as his stones, his rationality as his mortar; perched in the highest room, he would drown himself missions to forget his spiritual stronghold was built on the edge of a crumbling cliff.

Over the years, he became better and better at it; so good, in fact, that he rarely – if ever – questions the stability of his identity. Sometimes, Jace’s eyes on him shake the foundations, his fingers around his arm have Alec close his eyes and inhale deeply, their intimacy make him wish he could wander off and come back as another man but never, ever, does he have to remind himself of who he _is_ , who he _needs to be_.

So when the thought of Magnus, of his lips wet against his mouth, of his tongue all over him, of his hands laced with his own, sneaked into his daydreams, Alec blocked it like he had blocked others: harshly and bitterly. Because he wasn’t a teenager anymore. Because these thoughts had no business perturbing him. Yet once, only _once_ , had he let his usually well-controlled imagination run wild, _just to see_. Just to _taste it_. What it could be, _who he could be_. Who he obviously isn’t, has never been. Who he has no reason to fight after all because you don’t fight ghosts and winds, you don’t defend yourself against mirror mazes. Because his tower is a monument of self-respect and not of shame, because he isn’t _like that, has never been._

Especially not for Magnus, smoke between time’s fingers, with centuries of experience under his belt. Certainly not for Magnus, spell-caster, whose ungodly hands could take anyone’s breath away. Never, never for Magnus, half-demon, obviously _slave to his impulses_.

And yet, when he starts thinking of how familiar Magnus must be with carnal matters, Alec’s mind quickly turns blank.

 

* * *

 

As the wedding draws closer, Magnus’ attitude shifts slightly. A bit sassier than usual, he only offers snappy retorts when Alec comes to convince him to help Izzy to face judgement. Magnus tried, one last time, to test Alec’s limits, but Alec barely flinches, even though his stomach came up against his heart when Magnus proposes his gratuitous services. So instead, Magnus has to resort to aiming where it hurts. He tries to paint satisfaction all over his face when he gets Alec to give up his precious bow and arrows in exchange for his presence at Izzy’s side, but all Alec sees is bitterness.

“You don’t have to marry her,” Magnus will tell him later, his face so close Alec could almost taste him.

“Yes I do, Magnus,” Alec will answer flatly. It’ll sound like he’s trying to convince more than Magnus, it’ll feel like he’s raising a shield up, it’ll weigh as much as a lie on his tongue.

And Magnus will talk about _deserving_ and loneliness; Alec will look away, unblinking.

Isabelle will walk free but Magnus will refuse his payment; if he can’t have Alec, he won’t have any part of him.

 

* * *

 

Alec tugs on his bow tie. His suit fits him perfectly – which he should be grateful for but Izzy seems happier about it than him. The man in the mirror follows his gestures when, mechanical, he smoothes down invisible folds in the white fabric and shifts to appreciate his profile. He slowly inhales, sticking out his chest as if his lungs were reaching for purer air. His reflection looks ready, invincible, untouchable.

Appearances will have to do, for the millionth time.

“You’re perfect,” Izzy reassures him, resplendent in her golden dress. Her face peeks over Alec’s shoulder, gently smiling. “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.”

Alec deflates with a loud sigh and turns his back to the mirror, letting Izzy runs her hands over the collar of his jacket. As always, she’s steady, calming, _here._

“Of course,” he grumbles without managing to look at her in the eye. Izzy tilts her head to the side.

“Hey, Alec.” She cups his face with both hands. Alec catches her gaze. “Now is still time.”

A shiver runs down the nape of his neck.

“Time for what?” Alec pretends not to understand, but Izzy’s look doesn’t turn harsher.

“To call it off,” she says simply.

Alec’s lips part as the possibility of leaving this room without this suit fills his lungs. He doesn’t let his imagination run any farther than that, for he can already see the path he would walk, for he can feel the cliff he would throw his life’s work over.

Self-control is primordial.

“There’s no need,” he says, and Izzy’s hands let him go. Her lips tighten as she tries to read him in silence. Impassible, Alec lets her worried eyes undress him.

“Okay,” she eventually accepts, her voice lower than usual. Her worries quickly drown in her visible enthusiasm, but Alec knows her better than that. He also knows it’s reciprocal. Like the loving sister she is, Izzy straightens Alec’s bow tie for the last time before taking a step back.

“Take a few minutes for yourself. Jace will be waiting for you next to the altar when you’re ready.”

With a last encouraging smile, she turns around, making the light dance around her, and softly closes the door as she leaves. Alec stares at the exit for a second; something quickly pulls him back to the mirror. The sunlight filters through the window in a caress and lands on his side as if to bless him. Alec glares at the stoic man in the mirror.

There’s a maddening thrill to picking your own cage and watching yourself wither away as you throw away the only key.

 

* * *

 

The chapel is packed with a chattering crowd that Alec can’t help but scan over and over again. High representatives of the Clave, old family acquaintances, foreign faces Alec only remembers from blurry memories and trusted friends have gathered to witness an anticipated wedding. The large majority of these people carries the pure blood of Shadowhunters; rare exceptions merge with the audience, like Simon, who is currently engaged in a passionate conversation with his row neighbor. Alec can’t help but wonder what joy there is to witness the officialization of a purely political alliance, but he is well-aware no one here came for entertainment or human warmth.

Magnus probably would have. He most likely can find a way to turn any wedding into a remarkable memory, either by the light of his presence or by his talent at getting people drunk. There must be, somewhere in the archives, reports of important social gatherings that the Great Magnus Bane made his own; weddings, maybe, taken from modest family get-togethers to opulent celebrations. Birthdays, perhaps, from humble dinners to flamboyant receptions. Funerals, once or twice, where the warlock would have honored a loved one the way only a heartbroken, aching immortal could pay his respects.

Yes, Magnus could probably make any gathering formidable, not only by his magic but also by how people react to his presence, to his reputation. Put Magnus in the room and any piece of the conversation will orbit around him.

Today, not even dust follows gravity. Light particles slowly dance in the rays of light tainted by the stained glass, barely perturbed by the flow of moving people rocking back and forth between both sides of the aisle. Immune to time, they sparkle between cold floor and arched ceiling, the beauty of their indifferent waltz eternal.

Today, Magnus is absent.

 

* * *

 

“You’ve made me so proud.”

Maryse’s words swell with honesty and tear a smile from Alec. In silence, Robert nods behind his wife and Alec’s heart hiccups. The sole gratitude radiating from them is all he ever wished for – or _almost all_ but no one ever needed to know that; he only blinks in acknowledgment. As Maryse and Robert walk away to greet a couple of people, Alec watches their backs turned to him, his good old sense of duty sinking between his ribs.

What was their wedding like? Alec had only heard stories and everyone unanimously described Robert and Maryse as a loving couple, as a strong partnership deeply rooted in years of dating and working alongside each other. And yet here he was, their first child, their precious boy, about to turn around the meaning of marriage to secure power and stability for their family name.

Of course, it goes without saying he wouldn’t have had it _any other way_.

But have his parents ever felt like this? Is it how they made all their choices, like princesses to be given away to the best bidder, wrapped in sheets of thorns and weakened by responsibility as their title of firstborn had them engrave their family name on their own forehead for everyone to see? Have they felt the burden to reopen the wound of duty on a regular basis, have they felt their own blood roll down their cheeks like tears of damned ancestors, warm with life but bitter with metal and reluctance?

Alec lifts his chin a little higher.

 _Heavy is the head that wears the crown_.

 

* * *

 

He can sense Jace by his side when the ceremony begins, his support radiating through their bond, yet Alec has rarely felt this distant. From his parabatai, from the audience, from himself even. There is still light in the chapel, and not much has changed, but now he _feels it._ Feels it _happening._ He can’t stop it now – should he have? The memory of putting his knee down in front of Lydia claws at his insides. _It was a good idea,_ he swears to himself as inexorably, cold quicksand swallows Alec piece by piece.

_First, his heels and his balance with them._

A buzzing wave washes over the venue when Lydia steps on the red carpet, beautiful in her white dress. Alec barely registers the bouquet she gently holds or the golden reflects in her hair; her smile, authentic and true, outshines any deliberate artifice. Alec shifts his weight over his feet, watching her approach the altar. There she is, ready, in all her honesty and good will. Honoring outdated traditions must have been her burden for most of her life, seeing how her walk doesn’t stutter, how she effortlessly excels in her role as the immaculate bride.

Lydia’s eyes meet his and Alec realizes they must have grown in similar molds. One could say that’s what makes them good for each other.

He reaches out to her and takes her hand to guide her to his side. From now, they won’t budge until fate is satisfied but a part of Alec still hungers for a sprint. He kills the thought of it before it fully forms; _unfair,_ it’d be _unfair_ and _irrational_. This is the best that could happen. This is what he wanted. It may look uglier than it first sounded, but it is what it is.

But nauseous impulses sneak into Alec’s mind anyway.

The bride and groom both stand still at the altar, offering themselves to be scrutinized like fairground beasts. Actors, that’s what they look like; fakers, impersonators tip-toeing on the edge of a stage, hesitating between hiding in the crowd and play pretend until the end.

A voice – a Silent Brother’s perhaps, if not his own – resonates in Alec’s skull but he doesn’t listen. The aisle is empty and the rose petals covering the path have lost their grace, bloody specks of color over the dull masquerade. From the seats, people are looking up to him, to the show he puts on for them. Simon, emotional. His mother, proud. His father, unreadable.

On the other side of the room, the doors are invitingly open.

_Second, his knees and his resolve with them._

Alec’s eyes fall on Lydia. She’s still smiling encouragingly, carrying the weight of the wedding for the both of them. He can tell, by the way she keeps eye contact, that she’s trying to make him feel good. To be a constant, an anchor in this silent storm; because she understood, Alec can see, that a sacrifice is being made today.

Something is missing.

He should be strong but he isn’t. He should be happy but he isn’t. He should be proud but he isn’t.

Lydia is. Maryse is. His father, hopefully, is.

For half a second, he admits he’d rather slit open the throat of a hundred lambs and suffer the price of _their_ sacrifice than to be here; he catches himself in the middle of _such a_ _ridiculous thought_. Of course he wouldn’t prefer that. He’s doing the right thing. _Everything will be fine_.

Lydia takes the golden bangle from the pillow Isabelle presents to her and reaches for Alec’s wrist. Without thinking, he slightly pulls his sleeve back to give her more room and watches her hands put the bangle in place. It’s heavy and cold against his skin.

From an angle, it looks like a shackle.

Lydia steps back to look at him and Alec tries to thank her without a word. He doesn’t even know why. By some miracle, his legs are still carrying him; he turns around to take the necklace Jace is keeping for him. For an instant, he faces his brother and Jace’s mismatched eyes scan him, right here, in front of this damned altar he’s so aware of. Here is his anchor. He’s seen these eyes before, a billion times. He’s let them see through all he’s ever been. He’s drowned in them. He’s even dreamt of them in the room they share. Not once, not twice, because he’s let them make him weak and powerful and _alive_ of all things. And Jace’s lips are memories too, from the time his smile outshone a dozen suns, from their teenage years all the way to a few weeks ago; all of this, most of this, _at least half of this_ belongs in the past but Alec clings to it because that’s it, that’s the look he was looking for on his bride’s face but couldn’t find, that’s what first made him wish for another kind of freedom, that’s what he has _wanted_ and _loved_ and oh how he _loved him_ –

Alec unravels.

His heart hammers, thrashes and fights, as if a herd of wild horses was racing over his grave.

_Third, his hips and his innards with them._

His fingers are steady when he takes the necklace from Jace and Alec can’t remember the name of the rune he should be thanking for that. The chain is light, infinitely so, but still carries the heavy tear of diamonds perfectly. Lydia turns around so he can tie the necklace around her neck as grooms do; dozens are watching and only make the pendant heavier in Alec’s hands. Furtively, he catches Isabelle’s grieving gaze. He ignores it.

Alec closes the clasp and lets the chain rest on the nape of Lydia’s neck. Where it should be. Where it belongs.

Because this is the _right thing._

Even though the tower sways and the cliff is near.

Lydia turns to face him again and her hand grabs his without melting into it. The crowd behind them inhales as a single entity when the Silent Brother starts talking – Alec doesn’t quite register what he’s saying but he sees that Lydia does. She takes the stele Isabelle brought for her and reaches for the massive stone placed on the altar with it. The rock glows at the proximity of the heavenly metal and the stele flickers as Lydia pulls it back towards her, white smoke following.

 _Silence_ , he begs himself. _Silence._ He sighs out his demons, deeply enough to empty his chest of all the air he’s been holding in; his heart slows down, he can tell, and something clicks. Like during training. Like during battle. Alec floats between seconds, serene for what feels like the first time in ages. The choices he made look at him straight in the eye and it’s fine, it’s fine, he knows what to do. It’s limpid and pure and really not that bad. Now there’s him, and Lydia, and his family. There’s the essential, what matters. It’s simple, really. It’s clear. It’s obvious.

_It’s okay._

“A rune on the hand, a rune on the heart.”

_Then, his lungs and his heart with them._

Lydia gently takes Alec’s wrist in her hand and looks at him, as if to ask if he’s ready. Alec makes her understand she can go on, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be, but as Lydia is about to start drawing the Wedded Union rune on his skin, a bang echoes against the corridor’s walls and startles the attendance. It’s as sudden and chilling as a shot in the guts.

First he sees the crowd, their backs to him. Then he sees his mother as she twists to talk to someone. Finally, and now he understands, he sees Magnus, striding on the red carpet, his chin high, his suit fitting, his eyes locked on his soul.

Magnus is here.

Magnus is at his wedding. Magnus sees all this. There’s pink in his hair (pink? Fushia? Is it the stained glass that gives the light such a color or did he do it this morning? He didn’t have this earlier, right? Do warlocks use hair dye or do they have a spell for that? It fits him though, it looks very Magnus-y. He should wear this more often. Maybe a cold color would fit him better though –) and ten different emotions all over his face.

Jace and Izzy mumble something behind his back but Alec doesn’t find the strength to focus on what they’re saying. He barely notices his mother standing up furiously; is she talking to Magnus? Maybe. It doesn’t matter.

Magnus is _here._

The emotional rollercoaster Alec has been riding since the start of the ceremony stops dead in its tracks. From far away, Jace’s voice resonates.

“You gonna be okay buddy?”

He’s not. He’s _so_ not. And maybe it’s magic, maybe it’s not but he can’t take his eyes off Magnus. The skies could have parted, the seas could have let him walk on dry ground yet nothing would have felt as biblical as the war raging between two different men inside of him; Alec brutally realizes Magnus can easily see both, _has always seen both_ , while he so often tried to blind himself. He’ll have to kill one of them.

“Alec?” Lydia whispers. “Hey.”

It’s just a choice to make. Just a path, gray like all the others. It could be holding Lydia’s hand and forever linking his name to hers or it could be coming out to the entire Clave and kissing Magnus with everything he has left in him.

“It’s – It’s just, I – ” he struggles.

Tension crawls between the chairs like a thick, putrid gas poisoning everyone’s illusions of what this wedding could have been, growing heavier with each second. The horses are back, galloping against his ribcage in a roaring thunder and a hundred hands keep him from moving, from swallowing, from even _trying_.

Magnus, immobile, watches him, _sees_ him behind the façade. Alec remembers his words, _what he deserves_ , what _they_ deserve.

“I can’t breathe,” he chokes.

“I know,” Lydia answers. She pauses for a second. “It’s okay.”

They talked about this before. He had made his choice, he was sure of himself only a few moments ago. How dare Magnus try to break everything down for his own benefit? Is he used to everything going his way, always? Did an inflated sense of entitlement bring him here? Did he think it would be a great idea to push Alec to his limits here, in a public place, with everyone else watching? How is he even supposed to choose; is there a right way? Panic bubbles against his pounding heart.

“Yeah, it’s okay.”

Alec stares into the whites of Magnus’ eyes when he speaks; he remembers the warlock’s voice, _you’re a traditional guy._

Magnus was right. Following the rules is easy. It takes responsibility away from you. It makes you a _tool_ , a _symbol,_ a _weapon_ at times. Walking the path of tradition is the simple way. Heartbreaking, but simple; a map is here for you, the ground is paved, the steps are clear.

It’s all Alec knows.

“Go on, Lydia.”

Time and space crash in a blur and everything that could have mattered until now pops like soap bubbles.

_Finally, his throat and his head whole._

What happens next is hazy, Alec already knows the memory of it will be indistinct. He thought the runes would burn but he hardly feels them. His hands are not his own when he draws over Lydia’s skin in return, robotic; his heart has stopped beating. His eyes turned almost blind, as if he was looking at Lydia’s fresh marks from underwater. What is he doing? He has no idea. He knows the ritual, the instructions, he does what Lydia does. The rest is wind in his head, cotton in his ears.

The only thing he’s aware of is Magnus, from the corner of his eye. Magnus, who watches all of it in silence, crushed by the weight of lonely centuries upon his shoulders – the misery radiates from his whole being so powerfully there is no need to see his face to be drenched in its aura. Alec can see the shadow he is, standing on his own in the middle of the holy chapel and he can’t tell who he’s betraying the most between the two of them.

And it hurts. It _hurts._

It hurts because now his eyes are open and all of him aches because he could have done it. He could have raised from the grave like the immortal he isn’t and faced the world and sent everyone to fuck off. But he didn’t.

He could have been true to himself, and to Magnus, and to Lydia, he could have done what was _truly right_. But he didn’t.

And now he’s locked in the dungeon he built with his own two hands and Magnus witnessed his spine turn to dust; he could have made today a better day for both of them. But he didn’t.

The Silent Brother speaks again and the stele is back on a pillow; Lydia takes his hand and someone starts cheering but Maryse’s smile doesn’t feel half as good as Alec expected it to. It’s hollow and void of all meaning, completely worthless, _worthless_ compared to what he just lost. Even without looking at his sister, Alec can feel Izzy’s sorrow from where he stands and the list of people he just let down now carries another name.

Lydia kisses him. And Magnus is leaving. Alec’s breath hiccups against someone else’s lips for the first time and he begs the heavens above to never think of this first time again. He can’t close his eyes but Magnus is leaving, evaporating almost, so fast he barely touches the withered petals and in a matter of second it’s like he never came in the first place, him, the eternal who leaves his mark over everything he touches. His back vanishes behind the walls and a flash of his pink hair disappears now that the light doesn’t shine on him anymore; his presence is invisible and this crowd already doesn’t miss him. The audience stands and cheers and they congratulate each other as if they had any credit to take from this lie and Alec dies with each pair of eyes smiling as it meets his own. He could be crying for all he knows.

There’s a hole in the room, a gaping void larger than the doors to Hell and the pain of having dug it hits Alec in the chest with the strength of enough regrets for three lifetimes; he deserves it, he deserves all of it _and Magnus deserves better._

There are so many people all around him, or maybe they’re all hallucinations; it’s like waking up from a surgery, with all the numbness and unreality of it all and Alec is alone, he’s holding hands but he’s alone, he’s smiling back but he’s alone, he’s thanking someone but he’s desperately, dreadfully alone.

One day, this chapel will only be ruins, even if it takes a dozen millennia for the sacred stone to age and fall, but Alec is already there, King of the Ashes, and as he contemplates the fallen fortress he used to cherish, he only has floating dust for a crown.

 

* * *

 

Silence grows everywhere Alec goes, cancerous, slimy and smothering like bubbling tar. He only has to step into a room and the ongoing conversation dies under his feet. It first seemed that other people’s enthusiasm would be his main concern but once the Clave’s authorities gone from his immediate surroundings, their fake fervor vanished from the vicinity, leaving Alec to face everyone else’s concerned faces. Rumors had quickly started to spread; they hadn’t even emptied the chapel that some people had already started murmuring, gossiping like drama-starved old ladies. A look from Alec, just a turn of head in their direction, that’s all it took for them to stop talking, but in the corridors, Alec still feels the weight of other’s curiosity on his back. Without looking around, he can count the pair of eyes trying to decipher his expression, to catch a glimpse of remorse, to capture a word from his mouth. Craving for something juicy, heads follow him similarly to the likes of snakes, predatory. Necks turn as he walks, voices hush and when he stays in place for a few moments, at least one small group always gathers; not much, maybe two or three, but there they stand, emaciated hyenas eyeing some fresh meat, watching the newly wed with vampiric interest.

When he thinks about it, Alec understands. Everyone saw him avoid Izzy, dodge Jace, almost literally run away from any form of interaction involving someone who knows him well in some way or form. He let Maryse talk to him. He let Robert say some of the few words he could find in himself for his eldest son. He let all the others bless him with all kinds of attentions he sincerely couldn’t have cared less for, allowing them to bite off some more flesh from his decaying self-esteem, but the few people Alec had honestly opened to at least once didn’t even get to look at him in the eye.

In any other situation, Alec would have gone to Magnus. For a spell. For help. For a cocktail maybe?

Instead, he hides in a corner of the Institute, where benches are so uncomfortable no one ever goes there to sit down, and he fidgets with the golden bangle around his wrist. It’s still cold and heavy. It’s probably supposed to mean something beautiful and heart-warming.

It doesn’t.

Izzy and Jace are probably still looking for him. There’s work to be done, there are words to be said. The Institute as a whole has been wrapped in quite the crisis for the last few days after all. Alec knows he will soon go and drown himself in work, stay busy. For now, just for a few minutes, avoiding all responsibility seems like a good idea. It’s not like him to run away though. He’s never done such a thing.

But _look at where it got you_.

The others will have to do without him for half an hour. His presence isn’t _that_ crucial. They still have Capable Izzy and Golden Jace and Trouble-Magnet Clary. Maybe they even have Magical Magnus.

Apparently, they don’t have Leader Lydia, judging from the characteristic clacking of heels against the floor. Alec doesn’t raise his head and still sees her sitting by his side on the hard bench.

“Hey,” she starts softly.

“Hey.”

Even though she tries to get his attention, Alec refuses to look at Lydia in the eye. He couldn’t even if he tried.

“So,” she pauses for a second. “What happened back there?”

Alec swallows air.

“Nothing.”

She’s obviously not buying it.

“I’m not blind, Alec,” she sighs, annoyed. Alec looks around quickly to confirm no one can hear them and cuts her before she starts talking, his eyes drilling into hers.

“Forget about it, okay? It doesn’t matter.”

Lydia raises an eyebrow and straightens her back. The light shines a bit brighter on the necklace she’s still wearing.

“Listen, if you don’t want to talk about it, then don’t,” she says, not as cold as she could have been. “But I need you to be ready to work, Alec. If you need help taking care of whatever that was, then tell me so we can fix it and get you back on the field.”

Alec lets go of the bangle he’s been playing with and his eyes drop back to his thighs, avoidant.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” he concedes.

Lydia doesn’t answer but her plea still goes on in Alec’s head. Eventually, she detaches her gaze from him and stands up. For a short instant, she looks like she’s about to leave; she stays a bit longer, watching Alec pretend she’s not here.

“Do you regret it?”

Her voice clears the fog, neutral and flat, masterfully hiding a hint of acidity behind her controlled tone.

 _Of course I do_. Alec turns his head but doesn’t quite manage to look at her. Instead, he chooses to talk to her shoes, the way he would have with his mother when he was much younger. _Of course I don’t_. His fingers find the bangle again and he mindlessly tugs on it; his wrist follows. _Of course I do._ The memory of Magnus, haloed by golden light, makes him bite his bottom lip. _Of course I don’t._ He often paid attention to these thin fingers made heavy by precious rings, to thinner lips that have kissed centuries-worth of lovers. _Of course I do. Of course I do._

“No.”

 

* * *

 

If an outsider was to look at Magnus, they would first see him in all his eccentricity and singularity. They would admire him, probably, observe him from afar, most likely. If they were the kind to pay attention, they would learn to recognize his honest smile from his theatrical grin or his genuine interest from his back-handed compliments. Over the past couple of days, the outsider would maybe have noticed that Magnus’ hair had gone back to a classic black and that he hasn’t worn as much glitter as he usually does. Without a trained eye though, the outsider would probably have missed the way he neglects mirrors and people alike, for he ignores the former and rejects the latter in the same silence. Finally, an outsider would be blind to his oh so particular aura, to the trail of impressions he leaves behind him; it takes time and habit to recognize the way Magnus imprints on people. It would reveal itself to you in a slow realization. Seeing it for the first time would concern you, as you’d grow more and more aware of the full potential of Magnus’ influence on those who live and breathe around him; then one day Magnus’ effect would vanish, and it would concern you even more.

Maybe it’s all in Alec’s head after all – maybe Magnus never really changed anything he ever touched. Maybe he’s always been the only one to see sparks at the end of his fingers and sorcery in everything he does. Maybe the others’ stomachs never really filled with foam when Magnus entered a room.

Alec refuses to believe it.

It can’t be true, because Magnus is here, standing on the other side of the briefing room’s table, the palms of his hands flat against the glass, his head low, and something of his tugs on Alec’s spine. Magnus has to be the one who holds the rest of the world silent, who keeps the others from talking, magnetic; he has to be the reason why gravity feels heavier, why the room feels smaller.

He has to be, because if it’s not him, then only guilt can be this consuming.

Magnus lifts his head to argue and make a point and the light cuts his profile neatly, throwing his shadow on the table like black silk. He could have been looking at Alec at this exact moment, made a subtle innuendo about what kind of magic resides in this book they’re looking for and _what they could do with it_ , but he solidly ignores Alec instead. 

When Clary points out that _this bookmark_ belongs to the Book of the White, Magnus immediately volunteers to track it. Silent, Alec can only stand and watch the wall between the two of them grow taller and thicker as Magnus then explains his findings to everyone in the room but him. Not that he can’t hear Magnus, it’s more that Magnus doesn’t talk to _him_ in particular, yet Alec still feels the weight of Magnus’ hand on him, of his presence and his aura all around him.

In another time, had he been born with the gift of ignorance, Alec would have called Magnus a wizard. He would have accused Magnus of having cast a curse on him, for Magnus would have obsessed him day and night. Like others, he would have rationalized his passion by pointing at made-up supernatural abilities, because never could he ever had developed such a fascination for Magnus on his own. Yet, the more Alec thinks about the choices that led him to this moment, the more he wishes he had made others.

It’s no magic, it’s no spell; if anything, Alec cursed himself.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re _not_ okay,” Izzy insists, grabbing her brother by the shoulders. She keeps him in place and he lets her do it, even though he could very well push her away.

“Talk to me, Alec,” she begs. “Talk to me.”

Alec doesn’t talk; instead, he rolls his eyes under his closed lids and sighs as though Izzy had just brought up some ridiculous conversation topic. He doesn’t fool Izzy, who knows her brother as well as she knows her own pockets. He doesn’t talk, sure, but he stays, so she tries to get words out of him.

“You’re sad,” she states blankly, testing his reaction.

“Izzy –”

“And angry.”

“Izzy, don’t start,” Alec groans. Despite looking grave, he still doesn’t try to get away. They’re alone in the room, without anyone to disturb them, and Alec could very well escape at any moment and go lock himself in another room.

“Alec, it’s important,” Izzy perseveres. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Alec takes her right wrist and frees one of his shoulders. Izzy isn’t shaking – she never shakes, but her nervousness clearly shows in her tense frown and her lips bitten so frequently her lipstick started washing off.

“Please.”

Alec gives in.

“I’m not angry.”

“Alright,” Izzy accepts, letting him talk.

“I’m – I don’t know what I got myself into, okay?” Alec admits. “I _may_ have made a mistake.”

Isabelle could mock him right here, _you may?_ But she doesn’t, knowing fully how rare it is to see Alec slowly open up. Instead, she rubs Alec’s shoulder with one hand and draws circles into his wrist with the other.

“What about Magnus?” she asks softly.

“Well I – I don’t know, I haven’t talked to him, he probably hates me, and it’s not like he –”

“No, not that, Alec,” Izzy interrupts him. She suffers his glare without protesting. “How do _you_ feel about him?”

Alec helplessly looks around, as if something in the area could help him; of course, he doesn’t find anything. Unable to build a proper answer, he stammers.

“I don’t – Listen, I don’t _feel_ any –,” he pauses a second and inhales. “It wasn’t like _that_ , you know it.”

Izzy raises an eyebrow.

“No I don’t. He crashed your wedding. I understand you’re not about to move in together, but Alec, there is _clearly_ something here. And it’s killing you, and I hate seeing you like this,” Izzy says, visibly trying to keep it together. “I want to help you,” she continues. “Let me help you.” She steps closer. “Alec. Please.”

Alec breaks.

“How? Really, how?” he barks. “I’m stuck now! What can I even do?” He steps back, slipping out of Izzy’s hold. “Ask for a divorce? In the basis that I _may_ have a thing for Magnus?”

He turns around dramatically.

“ _Oh yeah sorry I’d like to call it off actually, I have a tiny crush on this dude I met a few weeks ago,”_ Alec snickers with exaggerated hand-gestures, already visualizing how Maryse would react to such news.

“Not because of Magnus!” Izzy retorts. “Because you’re just not into women, that’s all.”

Alec stops in his sarcastic rendition of Keeping Up With The Lightwoods; he turns back around, jaw clenched, a vein in his neck pulsing.

“You have to tell them, Alec. For your own sake,” Izzy’s voice comes softly again. “Or you’re going to spend your life married to a woman you’ll never love. You deserve _so much_ better.”

“I can’t, Izzy,” Alec replies, cold as ice. He’s still calm and somehow composed; he certainly has a special talent for it.

Isabelle doesn’t have the heart to break the silence immediately. She takes a few steps towards him, burning the sight of a struggling Alec in the back of her mind for the hundredth time. She tried to have this conversation before. She tried _so many times_.

“You know, he rubbed off on you,” she says eventually. Alec’s stern expression turns inquisitive.

“Magnus. Look at you being all theatrical and emotional,” she continues, containing a grin.

“I’m not –” Alec starts, ready to defend himself.

“It’s a good thing,” Izzy reassures him, stroking his arm. Alec closes his mouth and seems to deflate a little bit. “A good thing. Let it happen to you. For once.”

 

* * *

 

Does New York know when fires are born and burn in her palms? Does she know when passions fizzle and smokes asphyxiate her children? Does she feel it, when fires die, when someone she fosters lays awake at 4 in the morning? Does she regret it, when what once used to roar and consume, incendiary, turns docile and broken?

She stays and watches as the young ones fail and learn from the scorching pain, as the old ones realize they hadn’t failed enough times. She mourns when these hopes, once pure energy ablaze, unstoppable wildfires, die suffocated in their own ash.

Maybe she has pity for those who start the fires, for those who run away from them. Or maybe when, out of breath, they kneel, she’s the one to hand a fresh lighter; catalytic, maybe she thrives on the heat of it all.

Alec runs, runs like the Red Queen, exhausted but immobile; under the head of the shower he burns, rages and crackles like a summer bonfire.

It’s not tears if you can’t taste the salt.

 

* * *

 

The corridors have gotten narrower. There’s not enough space for Alec to look away from Magnus walking around, on the rare days he visits the Institute. There’s not enough room to pretend he doesn’t see him, doesn’t feel the ghosts he leaves all over the place. Magnus carries grief like a thick velvet cape; his perfect posture and impeccable fashion sense only flatter the way he suffers through the loss of one of his dearest friends. How broken must he be when hiding behind the heavy black doors of his flat; Alec has a hard time imaging him hugging one of the plushy cushions scattered around his living room in a desperate attempt to ground himself. He could, instead, see Magnus pour himself a tall glass of whatever he drinks on bad days – if it even differs from what he drinks on the other days.

Alec should talk to him, he knows it. There’s too much to be said. He owes him a word, a sentence, something. It’s weird though, it’s not like _anything_ ever happened between them. It’s not like Alec broke a contract, spit on a blood oath, yet it feels the same. Betrayal slithers in his veins, he could almost feel its claws rip at this inside of his arteries. In the morning, he likes to tell himself he only feels this way because he projects too much of himself on Magnus – he hasn’t hurt Magnus, of course he hasn’t, Magnus doesn’t care, right? He’s only shot himself in the foot. By nightfall, Alec closes the door of his room slowly, secretly hoping something, someone would open it wide again and force him to seek out Magnus, force him to do the right thing. When the lock clicks, the hand holding the handle doesn’t feel like it’s his; he calls himself _coward_ and wishes others would too.

 

* * *

 

Alec leaves the training room, his bow in hand. He’s stayed in there for what feels like days – even though his training lasted a few hours at most – and he now smells like a dead cow. Exhaustion got the best of him. His mind blank, still short of breath, Alec wanders through the Institute, letting his sore legs find their way to a shower. He’ll be making rounds downtowns tonight, meaning that he won’t have to stay home and ruminate on his own. Good news.

Lydia has tried to cheer him up but quickly stopped. When Alec spends more than half an hour around her, he can feel the guilt she tries to hide. They haven’t talked, really. But she knows. Maybe Alec should lean on her a bit more, let her support him. Would she? Probably not. How selfish would it be of Alec to ask Lydia, whom he kneeled in front of, to help him get over someone he almost ruined their wedding for anyway? _What a healthy marriage._

The distance he leaves between everyone and himself will, sooner or later, have consequences. Jace is running out of patience – not out of thirst for drama but out of concern. Soon Alec will have to talk to him, because that’s what parabatai do. That’s what brothers do. That’s what friends do.

That’s what Alec refuses to do.

The only thing is actively tries to do is _avoid._ _Avoid everything._ Run like the plague is right behind him. Avoid people who see him as a married man, avoid interactions with his parents, events of the Clave, avoid his own reflection like it’s a survival instinct.

He has yet to learn there are things he can’t avoid; they happen by accident, for the most part.

Magnus turns around the corner.

Like a panther, swift and fluid, he walks towards Alec. He’s probably aiming for the exit of the Institute, somewhere behind Alec, but it doesn’t matter. Chin high, chest up like always, Magnus moves with a confidence few could brag about while still looking so light on his feet you wouldn’t feel him if he ever touched you. The corridor is empty, except for them and for an instant Alec thinks of stopping, turning around and taking another way.

He doesn’t.

He could almost hear a tsunami coming for him, running behind his back to catch up on him; how else could Alec explain the quake under his feet, the shaking of his bones the slight tilt in his balance? When Magnus’ dark eyes finally meets his own, Alec only sees surprise in his expression. No game face, no hint of joy, no pleasure. No ressentment, no pain, no anger. Only flat, indifferent surprise, and clearly the worst option of all.

“Alexander! You, here?” Magnus salutes, his tone drenched with irony.

“Magnus,” Alec breathes. “Hey.” He slows down, suddenly very aware of how disgusting he must look, with his shirt wet with sweat and his greasy, messy hair. His grip tightens around his bow.

“Coming back from training?” Magnus asks. He stops walking to look at Alec from closer, feline. Magnus’ eyes are lined with a bright blue that neatly compliments his nail polish and his clothes are as casual as his wardrobe must get. His belt in particular looks ridiculously expensive, adorned with a massive sapphire on the buckle – Alec wonders if Magnus consciously decided to attract attention towards his hips. Knowing him, he very well could have (and even if he didn’t, well, too late).

“Yeah, I was – uh,” Alec gestures above his shoulder, trying to find his words. “Training.” _Ah yes, perfect._

Magnus fiddles with one of his rings for a second. His eyes drop below Alec’s collarbone and quickly drink in the sight of Alec glistening in the dim light of this corridor.

“How is Lydia doing?” he asks politely, finding Alec’s eyes again. _Now_ , Alec thinks, _now it’s not neutral._ There is a vicious satisfaction attached to the thought. Magnus clearly insisted on Lydia’s name, as if he had no interest in knowing how Alec himself was doing, as if he didn’t want to say _your wife_.

“Oh she’s fine. She’s – Yeah she’s fine,” Alec answers awkardly, unable to hide that he doesn’t know and never really asked her. “How are you?” The question slips out of his mouth before he can stop it and he regrets it immediately.

Magnus blinks slowly, his thin mouth stretching in a weak smile. He brushes off the question.

“Oh I’m fine, lots of work, as usual.” He pauses for a moment, his gaze drilling into Alec’s skull. Maybe he feels the agony Alec is trying to fight. Yes, he probably does. “I was wondering how the married life is treating you.”

Alex swallows. Magnus can read lies so well, but he tries anyway.

“Oh it’s good,” he starts, his free hand coming to rub the back of his head. “It’s fine, really. We – nothing has really changed, it’s just – It’s okay, yeah.”

Magnus doesn’t answer; instead he stares a bit more so Alec can’t help it; he talks, he talks to kill the silence, and Magnus lets him

“It’s a lot of – I mean, it’s a lot of work, but I think it’s going to be fine,” Alec improvises, not knowing where these words even come from. There’s no substance behind any of this, he never really _thought_ of working with Lydia on their “relationship” but here he stands now, rambling. “Our parents are happy, and we are – or at least she is, well I think she is quite –,” Alec stutters, spilling his truth amongst the obvious lies little by little. “She is quite happy, I guess. I think.”

Alec is out of breath, _again_ , and his heart stammers. He can’t find words anymore – _what do people say usually? –_ so he just licks his lips. Behind dark browns irises, he could swear that he just saw a piece of Magnus fall off.

“Sounds… Great!” Magnus comments after a silence. “I am _delighted_ to hear you’re doing so good. Now if you don’t mind, there’s a bottle of whisky I have been waiting decades to open and I believe today is a _perfect_ day.”

Alec nods and Magnus breaks eye contact. Alec has a hundred reasons to want to keep him here, keep him right here in this corridor; he also has a thousand reasons to let him leave.

So he watches Magnus walk around him. He should hold him back. Maybe Magnus would like it too after all? Maybe Magnus wishes Alec could grow a spine and _do something._ Maybe Alec isn’t the only one who sleeps badly after all. It’s still time, Alec can still reach for Magnus’s arm – he feels his hand twitch at the thought – and push him against the wall. He can still shove his own body against Magnus’ and ask him to make him lose his mind; he can still make him turn around and cup the side of his face and kiss him. Fuck it, he can even drop his bow and wrap both arms around Magnus’ slender waist and hold him, hold him far from everyone’s sight and taste him. He could catch his lips and his tongue, he could make the skin of his neck red as lust and just listen, _listen_ to what Magnus would try to keep quiet. He could embrace the wave that came for him, ride the tsunami, and make Magnus feel it too until they’re both unable to breathe anything but each other’s name. But he doesn’t.

Magnus’s shoulders sway under the lights until he turns around the next corner. Alec stares at the empty space there until a drop of cold sweat reminds him he has a body to take care of.

Magnus doesn’t come back to the Institute after that.

 

* * *

 

Lydia buries herself in her work. There’s pain to the way she talks and bliss in her relentless hunger for more things to do. She relishes in the time she spends without taking a break and Alec sees it clearly. He’s not the only one hurting.

Jace paces the floor of the room when he waits for Alec, no matter what’s happening. Jumpy and nervous, dark circles grow even darker under his eyes, morning after morning. He who should be golden tarnishes under the sun, even if he tries not to show it. Alec can feel it thought their bond. He’s not the only one hurting.

Izzy laughs less often. She dresses more and more like Maryse, as if to embrace the family name like Alec did. She chooses darker lipsticks and when night comes, she fights demons with exasperation. Alec sees the taste for games and mind tricks seeping from his sister; her fingers are cold all the time. He’s not the only one hurting.

The man in the mirror, stoic as ever, regrets.

 

* * *

 

On a Monday night, New York guides him. Alec follows the curve of her hands and finds the path to the building without even trying. He knows the smell of the stairs, the touch of the doors. Standing still, in silence, he inhales. He has to do this. He _must_ do this. He has been repeating these few words to himself like a mantra on the way here; it would be unfair not to do this. Rude. Cold. Immature.

He knocks against the door with tight knuckles. Usually, he doesn’t warn anyone that he’s going to enter. He just lets himself in and no one ever complained. This time is different though, but when Magnus opens the door, he still doesn’t complain. For half a second his eyes are out of focus and Alec witnesses a train of emotion hitting him, one wagon after the other. First, surprise, then worry, satisfaction and unease all at once. He blinks, unintentionally showing off his lids covered in black glitter, and when his eyes open again, his expression is neutral and controlled.

“Hey,” Alec blurts out.

“Alec, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Magnus keeps a hand on the door, the other holding a heavy book that looks like it has seen centuries.

“Can I come in?” Is there a way to be less pushy? Alec forgets at times. Magnus seems taken aback, more by the fact that Alec really is here and wants to see him than by Alec’s question itself.

“Sure,” he says with a nod, turning his back on Alec to leave the book down on a table in his living room. Alec follows slowly and closes the door behind him; now it’s only the two of them.

“A drink?” Magnus offers, raising a large bottle full of a clear liquor he picked up from a cabinet. Vodka? Gin? Alec has no idea. It probably tastes horrible anyway.

“No, thanks.” Magnus takes the time to pour himself a generous glass.

“So,” he starts with this singing tone of his, “what can I do for you, Alexander?” He puts the bottle back down and moves his glass around to watch the alcohol dance. The muscles in his forearm gently flex under his golden skin and his bracelets – at least one of them must be cursed in some way – click against each other.

“I came to apologize,” Alec announces clearly. “About what happened at the wedding.”

Magnus tilts his head to the side but avoids Alec’s gaze.

“It was – It was a difficult situation. For you,” Alec feels the need to specify, as if to convey empathy, but it doesn’t sound as good as it did in his head.

“Did you come here to pity me, Alexander?” Magnus raises his head and firmly stares at Alec. Even with his strong stance and dark eyes, he doesn’t look mad, but almost disappointed. Alec inhales deeply.

“It was a difficult situation for me too,” Alec tries to correct himself. Magnus frowns and opens his mouth, as if he was about to start a whole speech, but doesn’t make a sound. Instead, he walks to one of his luxurious armchairs, sits down with a huff and crosses a leg over the other. Alec stays still, powerless.

“Is there something you may want to talk about?” Magnus eventually asks, not letting his eyes leave him.

A ball of nerves chokes Alec. “I made a mistake,” he admits quietly.

Magnus stays silent and sips on his drink, his gaze piercing through Alec. He’s doing _that thing_ again, so Alec keeps talking.

“I panicked. I shouldn’t have done that.”

Magnus swallows.

“Alec, it’s common to have regrets right after a wedding. You’d be surprised by the amount of people I’ve seen in your situation,” he says, tilting his head back slightly. Alec knows he’s just pretending not to understand what he’s talking about. Is he protecting himself? “You’ll feel better soon, I’m sure.”

“I don’t like Lydia,” Alec lets out, and Magnus’ chin comes back down. “I thought I could play dumb but I can’t. I already can’t stand it anymore.”

Magnus takes another sip, longer than the previous one.

“Listen, Magnus,” Alec starts, and Magnus straightens up, his eyebrows raised. Alec can see sparks in his eyes from where he’s standing, even though Magnus hasn’t quite given up on pretending. “When you entered the room, I didn’t know what to do. I realized – I realized this wasn’t what I wanted. I thought about leaving Lydia right there and then. But people were watching and – I panicked.”

Magnus’ lips part slightly. Alec can’t stop staring at him and his heart skips a beat when Magnus speaks.

“ _Alexander_ ,” he says, and Alec could never get tired of the way his name rolls on his tongue, “what is your point exactly?”

Alec can’t feel his hands anymore.

“I came here to say I wish I had done things differently.” His gaze drops to the floor but he can see Magnus rubbing his lip with his thumb from the corner of his eye. “I’m not expecting anything, I know it’s too late, but I figured you deserved to know.”

Magnus stands up from his chair, both hands cupping the wide glass he’s holding. He takes a long sip and closes his eyes as he swallows. Slowly, he makes his way closer to Alec, whose heart is just as good as gone by now. In his chest, something opens a bit wider with every step Magnus takes and it’s terrifying.

“Excuse me for insisting, but what would you have done differently? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

If it was anyone else, Alec would have asked if this was meant as an insult, as a way to call him _spineless_. But it’s Magnus, and he deserves it. It’s Magnus, standing right here, asking for him to actually put in words what he has been thinking about since the wedding day – a well-deserved torture.

There’s an eagerness to Magnus’ expression, a selfish neediness that surged from nowhere, toned down by the soft resignation he’s used to wear. It’s written in the slight wrinkles of his forehead, the almost invisible smile that lifts the left corner of his mouth and the bounce of his eyes that catch Alec’s one after the other. His right thumb runs against the glass he’s holding, making it sing faintly in the dead silence of the apartment. He probably doesn’t even notice. However, Magnus stops walking and stays at a fair distance; Alec could touch him if he wanted, but Magnus isn’t inviting him in his personal space. He keeps to himself, closed off.

The tear in Alec’s chest keeps growing wider and Alec recognizes the feeling he had at the end of the wedding, when he watched Magnus go. His stomach twists at the thought of it, his heart gallops. He can’t breathe.

“I –” Alec looks at Magnus’ lips. “I think,” and his eyes find Magnus’ collarbones, raising and falling quicker than they usually do, “I think I would have kissed you.” Blood hammers in his ears and Alec watches Magnus down half of his cocktail without breaking eye contact. His lips are red and glossy when they leave the rim of the glass.

“Oh, so you would have,” he finally says after a couple of seconds. The tension between them, tight as a string, keeps them apart. Magnus doesn’t move, and neither does Alec. “Sadly, you can’t marry the girl _and_ kiss the boy, Alec. It’s not how it works.”

Alec blinks quickly. The back of his throat is dry. Magnus’ Adam’s apple bobs up and down and Alec stares. The tower has fallen, it feels like it crumbled ages ago. The cliff is far, far behind him and nothing really matters. Nothing _really_ matters, it’s done, it’s all gone to the wind. There’s only him, the same man as the one standing in all of the mirrors, and Magnus in all his beauty. There’s no need to protect anything, Alec has already destroyed everything himself. There’s no need to run, no need to hide; of all places this is where Alec would always wish to go.

“I know.” Alec swallows, again. “I wouldn’t have married the girl.”

Magnus sighs, as if something had fallen in place in his head. “That’s… _interesting_ ,” he concedes with one his hand gestures. He’s visibly at loss for words, which must not happen often.

Alec must go. Is there anything else to be said? Anything else to do? He never had a plan anyway.

He doesn’t want to leave like this. Not like _this._ Not with half a confession floating in the air around them. But it’s too late. He knows it’s too late. It’s not now, the right thing should have been done weeks ago, at the altar. It’s not now, not anymore.

Or maybe it just doesn’t matter. _Maybe it’s irrelevant anyway_ , Alec thinks as he steps forward. Maybe it’s just dust and rays of light playing, he vaguely ponders; his eyes are out of focus but he can still see Magnus’ uncertainty painted all over his sharp features. From here Alec can detail how Magnus’ lined eyes widen, how his pupils grow larger by the millisecond, how his tongue finds the back of his lips. Maybe he was meant to fail and hurt, so he could learn the taste of dirt; Alec’s hands find Magnus’ shirt, pull on the silk and Magnus’ eyes say _yes_ , so Alec leans forwards and kisses him.

It’s messy and unpracticed, Alec pushes forward, presses his mouth against Magnus’ lips and makes sure to keep him here, even if it’s only for a second. Magnus kisses back with enthusiasm, his bottom lip slightly trembling. He tastes like a kind of alcohol Alec can’t name; it’s bitter and harsh but Alec doesn’t mind; on Magnus’ mouth, it could be cotton candy and he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Magnus’ free hand slowly climbs up Alec’s back and rests in the curve there so Alec insists, craving, taking everything he can. Magnus calms him down and slightly pulls back; Alec tries to follow him and suffers like a damned man while, for a fraction of a second, Magnus’ lips are not on his own. Magnus tilts his head the other way and kisses him again, his mouth coming to play more eagerly with Alec’s lips, giving into their embrace and Alec exhales with satisfaction. His wrists could cramp from holding onto Magnus this hard but he doesn’t care and lets himself melt against Magnus’ chest. Through their shirt, he can feel this immortal heart beating with vigor and for a second, he delights in knowing that he has such an effect on him. His thoughts can’t wander for long though because Magnus holds him a bit tighter and the pressure of his body against Alec’s makes a wave of a certain kind of bliss rush to his head.

When they part, Magnus’ hand doesn’t leave Alec’s back right away.

“That was… Unexpected, to say the least,” Magnus comments, his voice rough. Alec has never heard him like this and he can already tell he’s going to do everything in his power to make this happen again. He smiles, smiles more, can’t stop smiling at Magnus.

This is what he has craved. This is it. The thrill, the color of it. The heat and genuine pleasure in it. He should have done it sooner, so much sooner.

There is a way, Alec is sure of it, to make things right. And if there isn’t, he will find it, for all the lands he built for himself, all the castles he thought of have no value compared to what Magnus has on the tip of his fingers, hidden in the corners of his mouth. He will chase it and lose all of his royal titles, turn his back on his mother if this is what loving a man means. He will make it his, make it theirs, and keep it alive, even if it costs him all the energy in the world, because there is no grave deep enough to hide what he feels, to hide who he is. His heart could very well be at the epicenter of all the quakes he’ll ever feel; as long as Magnus is around to hold him, Alec will be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't beta'd and it's past midnight here and I'm so tired so I'm sorry for the mistakes. I have a [Tumblr](http://chonideno.tumblr.com) if you ever feel like dropping by (the post about this fic is [here](http://chonideno.tumblr.com/post/157165383250/no-glass-for-the-groom-malec-10k)). If you liked this fic (or not), please please please leave me a comment and let me know about it! I'm dying for feedback.


	2. Birds From the Wreckage (Unfinished)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alec and Magnus try to fix what they broke.  
> (Please read the author notes).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this chapter a while ago and completely lost my inspiration for this fic on the way (sorry). I still like what I wrote though. This is what was supposed to be the start of chapter 2/3. Unless some sort of miracle happens, I will leave this fic as it is (unfinished). I want to focus on other projects.

Like all good things, it starts slow then consumes everything. It comes in waves, either racing or slow, but always, always it destroys. There’s only stability deep down, where the currents and the wind do not collide. It takes effort and pain to reach it but the promise of such a place makes the most terrified of people ready to brave storms. Most agree sitting on the floor, all the way below, is worth sleepless weeks; some say that getting carried away by the waves, tossed left and right by forces of nature, is the true beauty of falling in love.

It has rained for a week on New York. Rats have left the sewers to hide where it’s dry. Natural smiles have fallen off faces despite everyone’s efforts – the clouds are low and here to stay.

Without accounting for the furniture and the extensive collection of exotic objects of all kinds, Magnus’ apartment is empty. He’s alone, like often, in this palace as vibrant as his heart. He spent countless hours accumulating material possessions and putting them in _the right place_ , where they belong. Sometimes they would fit perfectly on the first try but in most cases, Magnus would have to move things around in order to accommodate for a new treasure. Common mortals could only dream to lay their eyes on what he took from the world and hid in his cabinets; behind thin glass, the fake eye of a Pharaoh follows his every move. Bedazzled with diamonds of another millennium, the skull of a shaman sits in his living room; the original manuscript of a world-changing piece of work, rendered immune to the kiss of time by complex spells, is protected from dust by a crystal cloche. In a drawer only Magnus knows how to find lies the diary of a long-dead queen and in the drawer below, he keeps a frame in which his past self shares a drink with a conqueror.

Magnus collects. He likes seeing things pile up, as long as they have history and sentiment attached to them. He has a certain taste for the colors these things have, for the way they fade while he doesn’t. Opening a cupboard and remembering the scent of the golden hallways of a Russian castle or reminiscing sunny days spent sitting against the stones of a lost city, that’s where Magnus’ love will always lie.

He has personal history with most of what he has hoarded. He was there when this necklace, heavy with a golden stone, was sold for the first time. He was there when this pocket watch, still tainted with the blood of an old friend, was still bought by the masses at a ridiculously low price. He was there when this painting first left the studio of its creator; in fact Magnus was the one to insist and push Vincent to take this big step.

More rarely, Magnus has forced his way into an object’s history. Back when he was younger – if it is even applicable to him – his thirst for adrenaline made him pocket masterpieces and take jewels away from many hands. Oh the conspiracy theories he’s fueled! How many people have wasted time trying to link a missing piece to a bigger picture, oblivious to the fact that Magnus had somehow _found_ said piece and kept it for himself out of sheer vanity? After all, this old crown perfects his aesthetic. And, who could have guessed, the plans of an antique capital make a remarkable wall decoration.

He gathers and keeps, rarely shares. All of what he is, his entire self, is written on these walls, scripted into how these objects are arranged, into what he hides and what he leaves in plain sight. The most enthusiastic bounty hunters would lose their mind in the cryptic maze Magnus has drawn but they still wouldn’t be able to decipher the man himself. There is so much to see no one ever really sees _him_ , reads _him_. Eyes fall on the books, on the peculiar items and he can walk amongst them, moving tree in a forest. He enjoys the game behind it. He doesn’t try to hide, but people just don’t _look_ in the right spots.

Ragnor could. Camille could too. Because they knew. They knew how it feels when death doesn’t touch you. They knew the self-respect it takes to paint your own self-portrait, to lay it out in the open. They knew how to tell stories through a headpiece, a broken ring or three feathers, from three eagle brothers. They knew how much pain could be poured in a vase, how many heartbreaks a shawl could have seen. This apartment, the Magnus Museum as Ragnor called it once, was enough to tell them what they needed to know.

Magnus is in love with his own living room and after living with himself for the best part of a thousand years, it’s quite the accomplishment. He still sees it as unfinished though, as if there always could be something else to add.

If there is one thing this gigantic mirror taught him, if that the best pieces he ever laid his hands on are the moving ones. The breathing, fighting, caressing ones. The ones that bring more life than he ever could on his own, for they cling to it with desperate passion.

They’re broken, these things. The large majority of them need help, advice and guidance. They talk and talk and talk and don’t even look at what’s around them. They don’t touch the treasures, don’t pay attention to the walls; Magnus soon knew that even though he built this place for himself, it can also mirror anyone else. Because they talk, sometimes they cry and they only see themselves even though they’re standing in a collection of priceless antiquities. They should be impressed! Shaken! Astonished! But when they end up admitting to the beauty of something, it’s most often related to themselves.

They’re hurting, these things. They have to learn. The young ones are scared, the old ones are scared even more. So Magnus gives. He gives, and gives, then takes whatever price he asked for. Something close to the heart, when he can; it gives more value to the exchange and clutters his apartment a bit more, in the right places. Money, in most cases – not that he _really_ needs it at this point.

They’re beautiful, these things. The most curious of them will peek into the cupboards or won’t resist the human need to fully open a drawer that’s been badly closed. Sometimes they will seek out _the best object you have_ , the most impressive piece of Magnus’ collection, and when he’s in a good mood, Magnus lets them. Depending on who they are, he will point to different things; he’ll show a silver locket, cursed by a mad woman centuries ago, to a young girl going through a heartbreak. To a fearless boy, he’ll show a sword split in two horizontally; to a grieving parent he’ll present a potted plant that blooms into one’s favorite flower when touched. They’ll laugh sometimes, lose their words on other occasions, but always, always they will thank him.

Some will enter and only look at him. Not at themselves, not at the treasures, _him._ And they’re breathtaking, these things. They’re kind and warm and tender and Magnus feels them radiating, even when they don’t try to reach him. He’s even more in love with his living room when it’s suddenly not a reflection of his past but a story about his present. It’s not about the walls anymore, it’s not about what he gives and what he shows but about him, _entirely_ , the living version of him, the one that’s not written in blessed jewelry, half-full bottles and unbreakable porcelain. It’s these moments that remind him he was born at some point, he’s _here_ and _alive_ for what it’s worth. They break the routine and being immortal doesn’t matter anymore; what matters is the gravity pull behind the both of them, the sparkling chemistry, the soft buzz in the back of his head.

They’re magic, these things, magic but rare and Magnus doesn’t know the spells they cast. He recognizes the language but doesn’t know the rituals – they don’t either but it doesn’t stop them. It happened a few times only but Magnus knew it was sorcery since the start and he’s always loved every part of it.

Once every two hundred years or so, Magnus will meet one who’s all at once, and knows it after a single glance. He belongs to them. Would give himself whole, lay on the ground for them. He’d chase them and love them with everything he has. He’d never keep them for himself but seeing them stand there, at the heart of his living room, would make him feel like his collection is complete, and he’s truly, fully satisfied with who he is, with what life has given to him. It doesn’t get any better than this.

Magnus really is in love with his living room; the only thing that has made it _truly_ better lately is Alec calling it home.

Alec touches things sometimes. He lifts some cups, moves a fragile piece of art around, looks under a book, then puts everything back in place. But Magnus knows, and he lets him. Alec looks, a lot. He has a preference for objects that have words written on them, he can’t keep himself from bending forwards and try to decipher whatever was carved long ago – even if the language has been dead for millennia. It makes Magnus smile from a distance. The way Alec’s eyebrows slowly move around his forehead when he scrutinizes something he hadn’t paid attention before, the way he licks his lips without thinking about it, all these details give a new value to whatever trinket he’s inspecting.

Magnus still can’t tell if Alec _just_ looks or if he _sees._

Of all people, Magnus expects Alec to be the next person to understand the puzzle. The day will come and he will let Alec read him like a map. There’s an excitement attached to the thought. He can’t wait for Alec to get to know him better, to have these _aha_ moments. Alec will undress him slowly, piece by piece, and Magnus will not try to stop him.

But tonight, the apartment is empty.

Alec isn’t in the living room. He probably won’t come here for a while. Last time Magnus heard from him, he was supposed to go and have a talk with his family. Magnus told him, _you don’t have to do this_ , but the words hurt on the way to his lips. He could not stand the sight of Alec keeping the cage’s door closed on himself, he could not watch Alec hurt himself for the rest of his life; however, who is Magnus to push him to take such a decision?

Every time he thinks about it, Magnus comes to the same conclusion: he’s not pushing Alec. He couldn’t if he tried. This boy, knowing fully well he has a limited about of time to spend on Earth, survived for almost his entire life in a marble closet. Only recently had he pushed the heavy door and embraced both the sun and the rain coming with the privilege of being outside. Magnus tried to influence him in the past, to guide him to the path of a life he could love and in answer, Alec had married Lydia. This boy is unmovable, stubborn and strong. Magnus couldn’t force him to do something for all the gold in the world.

So Magnus knows Alec does whatever he wants. Yet there is one fear that surpasses all others.

To be a pretext. An excuse. A golden opportunity for Alec to finally face who he is, who his parents refuse to believe he is. Someone to crucify in the name of helping Alec. Once Alec is free, after braving the hurricanes ahead, will Magnus still matter? Or will he be dropped, almost by accident, by a sorry Alec who didn’t even know he was using him? Once the interest fades, after Magnus does the last thing he could do to help Alec, will he have to go?

Magnus voices his concerns when only Vermeer’s _Concert_ can hear him. He should talk with Alec about this though. If it has to hurt, better now than later.

Still, he will support Alec no matter what – only partly because he sees his very young self in him.

There is potential in Alec’s presence, there is energy in the way he resonates with Magnus’ whole being. Magnus can’t get enough of the rough prose in Alec’s words when he _tries,_ when he _does his best_. There are books to be written about his soft stutter, his irregular blinking and the lips he makes sure to keep wet. By nature, and without ever making any efforts about this kind of thing, Alec transcends and captivates; above all else, he deserves and merits mountains of pearls and promises for being the way he is despite everything.

Magnus will do what he does best: give, give and give again.

 

* * *

 

Alex almost grew up on this couch. When he didn’t have a bow to care for or a mentor to satisfy, this couch was waiting for him. As the firstborn of the Lightwood family, his parents often talked to him and him alone. While Izzy and Jace kept training or following classes about how to master runic powers, Alec spent an hour per week in this office, listening to Robert and Maryse as they tried to prepare him for the responsibilities he would have to assume in his future. From an early age, they gave him a taste for rules, orders and sanctions. They made him both a leader and a follower, molded him into what they most wanted him to become. As his body grew in strength and stamina over the years, so did Alec’s heart; at first he would never question, back when he was still a child, but time and experience made him tougher. He took decisions for himself and made sure everyone knew about it; most importantly, he made sure everyone knew they couldn’t change his stance on a matter.

He rarely ever stood forehead to forehead with his parents. Even after maturing the way he did, he kept the same attitude towards them as he had as a child. With respect and patience, he too often assumed he didn’t have the authority nor the ability to stand up to Maryse, volcanic in her anger. As for Robert, Alec knew _oh too well_ how appearances can be deceiving. His father, a hand of steel in a velvet glove, was above everyone else the person he had always strived to make proud.

Alec’s done his best. It’s still not enough.

He barely listens as he sits there, instead rehearsing what he should tell them. Between his ears, something boils and bubbles up; it’s cold though, it drizzles down the back of his neck before dying in shiver between his shoulder blades. He stops his body from shaking. Robert doesn’t like him listening passively so Alec blinks out of his trance and looks at his father in the eye.

Maryse talks about _missions_ and _emergencies_ but it sounds hollow. The runes Alec now carries are just done healing, he can feel his pulse beating against freshly marked skin. They say taking them off is painful.

Alec interrupts his mother. “I am going to leave Lydia.”

If anyone has ever thrown feces in Robert’s direction, he probably didn’t make a face as shocked as the one he’s wearing in this instant. Frozen in outrage, he doesn’t even let an ounce of compassion or understanding stain his scandalized expression. Maryse, in contrast, lets the heat of her emotions gradually mold her frown; from offended by the interruption, she goes to looking plainly surprised then violently appalled by Alec’s words. They seem to have burnt her where nothing should ever even touch her. Her face is tense all over and she closes her mouth over words she prefers not to use on her own son.

“This marriage was a mistake. We’re both suffering from it. I can’t stand it.” Alec looks at his parents one after the other. “I want a divorce.”

Maryse breathes deeply. She does this often, as a way to stay calm. It works, most of the time. Her voice is faintly shaking.

“Alec, give it some time, to the both of you. You—”

“You don’t understand. I don’t like Lydia. Never will,” Alec insists. Like his mother, he inhales. “She’s not my _type_. We won’t be happy together.”

Robert butts in firmly, his voice tainted with red-hot anger. “Listen, I know you married quickly, but remember why you did it in the first place, Alec.”

“I did it for you.” Alec snaps back, not letting his eyes leave his father’s. “I did it for you, for our family. And it’s killing me.” Robert opens his mouth to throw a rebuttal at his son but Alec doesn’t let it happen. “I shouldn’t have let you expect this from me. I can’t throw my life away like this. Whether you two want it or not, I will leave Lydia.”

A second passes, then another; Alec feels himself breathe, his heart follows a new pace. He’s alive and standing.

“I wanted to let you know.”

The turmoil of emotions will never quite wear off his parents’ faces. Until Alec leaves the room, voices stay broken and glares stay ablaze; he delights, relishes in the Hell they try to unleash on him, for he knows it better than anyone, mapped every nook and cranny of it and forged the exit key himself. Now he’s free and their flames are cold.

 

* * *

 

The Institute is not Magnus’ home. It’s full of people who would rather know him away from them – he can’t say he’d like to have them close to him either. Even now, in the year of their Lord two thousand and seventeen, the looks some Shadowhunters give him are still oddly familiar and have a sort of eighteenth century vibe. The contempt, the height they give themselves…. So young and already so prideful. Magnus’ age and powers should humble them yet the younger ones seem to take it as a challenge. Magnus, of course, knows better. They will learn.

Whispers are still shared within these walls. It’s been weeks since the wedding and some people still haven’t moved on. It’s too juicy. It’s too tempting, too see him as the Warlock Who Crashed A Wedding, the Downworlder Desperate For An Angel’s Love, the Poor, Poor Magnus Bane. It brings him closer to earth, lower, where all the chatty onlookers are justified in their prejudice.

He told himself he wouldn’t come back after meeting Alec in a corridor, days and days after the wedding. Yet here he is again. He could start charging the Institute for travel fees – portalling doesn’t consume nearly as much energy as walking would but that’d serve as a message. But he doesn’t want to have to hold meetings in his apartment. No way he’s going to let some of these people close to his place; they would find a way to twist their beloved law and take something away from him or leave their mark in some way. Power gets to the head of the purest amongst them, always has.

Magnus never envied them. At least at home he has a place where they can’t get to him. He has drinks and time for himself. Them? They’re stuck with each other all the time. What a sad life.

Maryse asked for Magnus’ help on a case but has barely looked at him in the eye since the wedding. He understands, really, but doesn’t really care. The discomfort of such a person is his pleasure. Has she forgotten that without him, Isabelle wouldn’t be where she is today? And even without her daughter’s problem set aside, Maryse still calls for Magnus’ help on a regular basis lately. She owes him, really. Magnus is pretty happy about it; it’s always useful to have someone like this in your pocket.

Lydia, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to hold any grudge. Magnus wouldn’t have been surprised if she had also started to treat him more harshly, but she actually grew softer around him. More empathetic. In some ways, closer and warmer. She stands on his side of the table. She encourages his ideas. She asks if she can help; she already does so much, bless her heart. Like in many other people, her way to say “thank you” is in the details.

She wants the best for Alec but got carried into something she didn’t anticipate, it’s all over her face. Maybe Magnus will offer her a drink one day.

Magnus goes back to the chapel once, when he’s sure no one is in here. It’s as empty as a church on a Friday night. The monumental stained glass still give soul to this place but the floor is barren, pure stone under his shoes. The benches are gone, the carpet is nowhere to be seen and the roses are long dead by now. There altar is still standing like a throne at the other end of the room. Magnus feels watched, as one often does when they step into a holy place on their own.  The perfected architecture of the chapel makes his steps subtly echo against the pillars; if he focuses, Magnus could hear his breath bouncing against the ceiling. He remembers being right here as if it happened the day before. His knees were weak - not as much as they are now – but still he stood, and still he watched.

On very few occasions throughout his life, Magnus had a taste of what dying inside feels like. He always found it difficult, to describe pain when blood isn’t involved; in that moment, when Alec denied him, Magnus could tell whatever is under is skin was crumbling.

There’s very little Magnus wouldn’t do if it meant he’d never feel this way again. Yet he must have a taste for self-flagellation because he stays for a few more minutes. Someone would probably try to write some terrible poetry about this.

He leaves eventually.

When he passes Alec in the Institute, they don’t talk. Alec rarely slows his walk. Because there are always people around them, stopping for a chat would be drawing a target on each other’s back, so they just avoid it. It’s not negligence or disinterest, they’re not ignoring each other – at least Magnus doesn’t. He still wishes it could be different.

 

* * *

 

Magnus comes back. Again. Why is he still doing this to himself? He’d like to be naïve enough to convince himself he’s doing it out of a sense of duty. He has allies to help, it’s true, but the thrill doesn’t compare to sometimes catching Alec as he comes back from a mission or wanders in the corridors. It’s the hope that keeps him coming back – the hope! How frivolous of him, after all these years looking down to Shadowhunters. The hope! As if it is the last true thing in Magnus’ life; but really, to say anything other than hope has ever moved him would be telling lies. He is a creature of wishes and fate, Magnus knows it, yet when he walks as if he, on his own, picked the plates of gold Hell is paved with, no one can see it. _Arrogance_ , some will call it, _ego_ ; for Magnus it’s only good posture, a tight core and strong shoulders. Plus, he would never let Alec see him looking like a mess – not that he would ever look anything other than perfect in the first place.

Alec never looks like a mess. He could have just rolled out of bed, he would still be glowing from within. Of course Magnus hasn’t seen it firsthand – _yet_ – but he doesn’t need to. Alec doesn’t even have to do anything with his hair or worry about his skin. He just has to stand right where he is and wear a layer, maybe two, and there goes the Earth, going round and round. There goes the light, pulled in with the air he breathes, reaching for him like he’s why the Sun came into existence in the first place. Sad days die out in his dimples, flowers bloom when he smiles, something humanity hasn’t quite deserved yet hides in the subtlety of his irises. Watching him trot around is a privilege reserved to a few; he’s hot when he’s mad and hotter when he isn’t. He’s beautiful. Magnus is grateful and out of breath.

Oh, and Alec would _kill it_ with eyeliner.

To tell the truth, even without Alec, Magnus would still come back. He has more, far more than the sight of Alec to find here. There’s Clary, _oh so precious Clary_ , who apparently cannot go one day without being reminded that she was dealt a bad hand. Whoever is in charge of watching over Nephilim should be doing a better job at keeping her safe. Magnus would scold them himself if he wasn’t certain that he’d have to face some sort of angel; still, Clary being treated unfairly makes his old heart race for a minute every time he thinks about it. To top it off, her impulsive nature, bless her soul, tends to lead her where the light won’t find her. Magnus worries.

Still, it’s alive and in one radiant piece that Clary comes to find him soon after his portal closes behind him. The sight of her would be enough to make Magnus’ day if it wasn’t for the panicked look on her face.

“Magnus, thank god, you’re here!”

“I’m glad to see you too, my dear,” Magnus assures her, his brows frowning in confusion. Of course Clary is _always overjoyed_ to see him, but not _that_ much, unless something really fishy is going on.

“Simon is not answering my calls, I- I don’t know what to do, I can’t find Raphael,” she starts rambling. “I thought you would know where he is, he comes to you sometimes, right? I can’t believe – “

“Clary,” Magnus stops her, trying to soothe her, “Simon was with me just now. He’s fine, I promise you.”

Relief washes over Clary’s face, quickly followed by concern. “What did he do again?”

Magnus’ gives her half a smile.

“Oh, nothing worth worrying about. We spent a bit of time together, abroad. His phone probably didn’t have any service,” he says with a quick hand movement to emphasize how far they were. As if he was about to reveal a secret, he leans forwards. “Next time you see him, ask him about Agra. I _know_ he loved it.”

Clary raises an eyebrow. “Agra?,” she asks, incredulous, “the city?”

Magnus straightens his back again and raises a hand, ready to start an explanation but a booming voice stops him before he can start.

“You’re wasting time, Clary Fairchild.”

Having undoubtedly picked up the habit from hanging out with the Lightwoods for too long, Clary rolls her eyes before spinning around to face Alec walking straight towards her – towards _them_. His scandalously solid frame is barely covered by a plain, sweaty tank top Magnus wouldn’t wear for all the gold in the world but _damn_ does it look good on him. The slight dimples at the front of his shoulders, right under his collarbones, give away how much muscle he carries; they move harmonically, in rhythm with his pace, until Alec raises an arm to gesture at Clary.

 “Alec—” Clary starts, but Alec cuts her, stopping in front of her.

“You should be training,” he says dryly, pointing at Clary with an accusatory finger. Clary gapes for a second and Alec lowers his finger before shifting to face Magnus; his traits soften imperceptibly, Magnus notices.

“Magnus.”

“Good afternoon, Alec.”

Current sparks between them; Clary storms off. Magnus makes a mental note to treat her to something next time he can.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you today,” Magnus lies by omission. Sure, he wasn’t really _expecting_ but he was certainly hoping. “You look … _busy_.”

Alec shrugs, turning his head and avoiding eye contact as he often does. “We have a lot on our plate.” A piece of his hair falls over his eyebrow when he looks at Magnus again – _dear lord._ “Are you here for anything in particular?”

Magnus has to remind himself where to look.

“A few old books, actually. Nothing _crucial_ , I just need to double check something. You Shadowhunters tend to keep all the good stuff for yourself.”

Alec smiles faintly. A vein in his neck is still pumping feverously. He was probably still busy training a few minutes ago, why did he come here so fast? The thought of Alec recognizing the sound of a portal opening and rushing to see him makes Magnus lightheaded. Or is Alec just too nervous?

“Well if you need help to navigate the Institute’s library, I can—I mean,” Alec mumbles, visibly realizing mid-sentence that Magnus probably knows said library as well as he knows the bottom of his pockets by now. “If you can’t find the book, I can ask around.”

What a _sweetheart._

“Thank you, Alexander,” Magnus gratefully accepts.

Alec is playing with his own fingers; his fidgeting habit betrays him so often. Allowing himself to glance down, Magnus catches a glimpse of strong knuckles and raw muscles under Alec’s marked skin; but by far the prettiest sight is how naked his wrists are. There is no gold dangling around thick bone, no accessory failing to compliment his complexion – he looks so much better in silver anyway. Nothing here, where it once was, to remind anyone that Alec is now a husband to someone.

“You’re not wearing the... the _thing…_?” Magnus remarks without grace, vaguely gesturing towards Alec’s hands.

Without restraints and unlike what Magnus would have expected of him, Alec grins. “No,” he says, glancing down too. “It wasn’t practical for archery training, you know. I don’t like it anyway.”

Alec lets his hands dip back to his hips and looks at Magnus in the eye, and Magnus _knows_.

“I don’t like it either,” he assures. “You’d look better in a necklace.”

Alec smiles wider; he takes a few steps back, duty calling him from the training room.

“Let me try some of yours someday.”

For a second, Alec watches his words sink into Magnus’ head, teasing, before turning around. Magnus watches him go, promising to himself one day he _will_ let Alec get his hands all over his jewelry collection – if nothing else – but not before marking down every day Alec has flirted with him.

What did his friend Anatole say once? Something about folly of passions and wisdom of indifference. Magnus has always worn folly best anyway, he likes feeling it burn in his smile and consume his every action; he only has one life after all, no matter how long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I know, it's weird. But I didn't want to leave this to rot in a folder. You can scream at me @chonideno on Twitter or Tumblr.


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